Ho! petty prattler of sparkling sin,
Paradox-monger, slave of the queer!
All your wish is a name to win,
To shook the dullards, to sack the tin,—
Wait till you come to Ninety Year!
Curled locks cover your shallow brains,
Twaddle and tinkle is all your cheer.
Sickly and sullied your amorous strains,
Pessimist praters of fancied pains,—
What do you think of this Ninety Year?